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A 
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OF 

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KATHARINE 
MORSE 


A  GATE    OF   CEDAR 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO    •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY    •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


A  GATE  OF  CEDAR 


BY 

KATHARINE   MORSE 

9 

Author  of 
The  Uncensored  Letters  of  a  Canteen  Girl  " 


gorfe 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1922 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,   1922, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  printed.     Published  January,  1922 


FERRIS 

PRINTING  COMPANY 
NEW    YORK   CITY 


THIS  BOOK 

IS 
DEDICATED 

TO 
MY  MOTHER 


M191963 


7  he  Shuiamite  and  Verses  for  a  Guest  Room 
appeared  in  the  Century  Magazine  under 
the  pen  name  "Anne  Arrabin." 


FOREWORD 

I  PIPE  not  to  the  world, 
For  it  were  bold  of  me 
To  think  that  such  a  one  as  I 
Could  pipe  for  others'  glee : 

For  some  have  pipes  of  gold 
And  some  of  mellow  brass; 
My  pipe  is  but  a  hollow  reed 
Bound  with  a  blade  of  grass. 

Some  pipe  to  courts  and  kings, 
Some  to  the  crowding  mart ; 
But  I,  I  pipe  not  to  the  world, 
I  pipe  to  my  own  heart. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD ix 

THE  CEDAR  GATE: 

MAPLE  TREE 17 

MY  GARDEN 18 

AUTUMNAL 19 

BUMBLEBEE 20 

COLORS 21 

AWAKENING 22 

THE  SHRIVING 23 

ON  THE  HILL-TOP 24 

A  SUNSET 25 

TWILIGHT 26 

IN  THE  ORCHARD 27 

BIRDS 28 

HUMMING-BIRD 29 

THRASHER 30 

CROW 31 

CHICKADEE 32 

THE  OAK  TREE 33 

A  BEE  SETS  SAIL 34 

THE  SUMACHS:     FALL 35 

THE  SUMACHS:  WINTER 36 

FOG 37 

BLITHE  BIRD  BOLD  BEE 38 

WINTER  IN  THE  SOUTH  .  .  39 


xii  CONTENTS 

OUT  OF  THE  PAST:  PAGE 

THE  REGICIDE 43 

THE  WITCH 46 

DAN  KELLOG  ENTERTAINS  SHAY'S  ARMY 48 

STEPHEN  BURROUGHS  DEFENDS  HIMSELF 50 

THE  PRIVATEERS 53 

THE  PIONEER'S  THOUGHTS  TURN  EAST 55 

GETTYSBURG 56 

FOR  ANY  LOVER: 

PRELUDE 63 

THE  DREAMER 65 

PREMONITION 66 

HE  TROUBLES  ME 67 

LOVE'S  ADVENT 68 

LOVE'S  DAWN 69 

THE  SHADOW 70 

I  DARE  NOT  TELL 71 

THE  TRYST 72 

FOR  THEE 73 

Now  You  ARE  SLEEPING 74 

AFFIRMATION 75 

THE  SHULAMITE 76 

Kiss  ME 78 

THE  NEW  MOON 79 

FANCY'S  GARDEN 80 

THE  FEAR 83 

THE  MIRROR 84 

THE  WANDERER 85 

His  LETTERS .' 87 

HEIGH-HO! 88 

LOVE'S  GRAVE 89 

HUMORESQUE 90 

THE  RAIN 91 

RENUNCIATION.  .  92 


CONTENTS  xiii 

FOR  ANYONE:  PAGE 

TRYPTICH  IN  ASH  AND  EBONY: 

LEFT  PANEL:  THREE  CENTURIONS 95 

RIGHT  PANEL:  A  GROUP  OF  SOLDIERS 96 

CENTRAL  PANEL  :  THE  Two  THIEVES 98 

A  ROOM: 

THE  ROSEWOOD  CABINET 100 

A  JAPANESE  PRINT 101 

THE  SPINET 102 

THE  HORSEHAIR  SOFA 103 

A  PORTRAIT 104 

THE  LITTLE  DANCER 106 

IDYLLE  FRANCAISE 110 

HADLEY  MEADOWS 112 

THE  FERRIES 113 

THE  LISTENER 115 

THE  MARIONETTES 116 

CAPRICE 118 

THE  HOMESTEAD 119 

THE  LAST  DESIRE 121 

THE  DEAD 122 

UPSTAIRS 123 

THE  ANGEL 124 

AT  BETHANY 125 

LIFE 126 

LASSES  LOVE 

THE  WAY  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS 129 

TEE  MESSAGE 130 

THE  DAISY 131 

THE  CALENDAR 132 

IF  I  WERE  A  LAD 133 

I  LOVED  IN  LAUGHTER  .  .  .134 


xiv  CONTENTS 

FOR  A  CHILD:  PAGE 

TREE 137 

GOOSE-GIRL 138 

FROM  THE  NURSERY  WINDOW 139 

COLUMBINES 140 

THE  FAERIE  FROCK 141 

THE  ELF  CHILD 142 

THE  MOON 143 

FOR  SOME  I  LOVE: 

TRUANT 147 

To  ONE  AWAY 149 

THE  WIND 150 

VERSES  FOR  A  GUEST  ROOM 151 

To  ANNE 152 

To 153 

To  E.A.L 154 

APOTHEOSIS 155 

AN  OLD  PHOTOGRAPH 156 

To  A.D.M 157 

THE  GARDENER 158 

IN  MEMORIAM 159 

HISTORICAL  NOTES..  .   160 


A  GATE  OF  CEDAR 


MAPLE  TREE 

Now  fall  mints  gold  from  out  the  green  of  June; 

Golden  as  honey  in  the  comb, 

Pagan  and  perfect  as  some  temple  dome 

My  maple  burns  against  the  blue  of  noon. 

Under  its  shining  shade  I  lie  and  gaze 
Up  through  dark  branches  veining  amber  tints 
Over  whose  arch  the  gold  light  gleams  and  glints 
Lovely  as  lacquer,  lucent  as  old  glaze; 

Till,  lying  so,  I  dream  there  drips 
Wine  and  wild  honey  on  my  lips. 


17 


MY  GARDEN 

MY  garden  is  a  harlequin, 
With  careless  colors  tumbled  in ; 
And  neither  proper  beds  nor  rows 
But  every  gipsy  flower  that  grows; 
Larkspurs  and  blazing  stars  and  phlox, 
Petunias  and  hollyhocks, 
And  marigolds  and  feverfew 
And  campions  and  f our-o' clocks ; 
Scarlets  and  blues  and  pinks  and  corals 
With  every  saucy  scent  and  hue    .    .    . 
And  should  you  comment ;  Such  a  garden 
Is  little  suited,  by  your  pardon, 
To  our  New  England  modes  and  morals, 
Pray  tell  me  then  the  reason  of  it ! 
I'll  only  say;  The  wild  bees  love  it, 
And  what  the  bees  love,  I  love  too. 


18 


AUTUMNAL 

RUST  on  the  field  and  on  the  thicket, 

A  cicada,  a  shrilling  cricket, 

Wild  apples  from  a  hill-side  bough 

With  skin  like  flame  and  flesh  like  snow, 

With  chestnuts  brown  and  warm  and  sleek 

And  shining  as  an  Arab's  cheek, 

Grapes  garlanding  a  twisted  vine, 

The  sumachs  ruddy  as  red  wine, 

And  under  sharp  October  skies 

Your  sunburnt  smile,  your  gipsy  eyes! 


19 


BUMBLEBEE 

IN  a  satin  chamber 
I  surprised  a  bee 
Tippling  draughts  of  amber 
From  cup  of  porphyry. 

With  buccaneer  bravado 
The  velvet  debauche 
Booms  blustering  defiance, 
Then  swaggers  it  away. 


20 


COLORS 

No  color  is  so  glad  as  green ; — 
When  the  full  flood  of  April  shakes 
The  world  and  each  bud  stirs  and  wakes 
Amid  the  woods  where  woodland  lakes 
Shine  bright  as  bluebells  in  between; 
Or  when  June  quickens  and  the  rye 
Lies  tender-hearted  to  the  sky, 
Or  when  the  young  maize  shoulder-high 
Takes  from  the  light  a  shifting  sheen: 

If  God  should  say  to  me;  Now  choose 
Which  hue  to  keep  since  you  must  lose 
All  colors  from  the  earth  but  one : 

I'd  say;  Dear  God,  I  would  regret 

The  hyacinth  and  violet, 

The  cowslip  brimmed  with  morning  sun, 

The  phantom  rainbow  and  the  mist 

At  dawn  of  pearl  and  amethyst; 

And  may  I  die  ere  I  forget 

The  blue  of  yonder  hill-top, — yet 

God,  give  me  green ! 

21 


AWAKENING 

THE   dawn   is  a  kiss   on   my   face 
I  throw  wide  the  dark  door  of  night, 
I  leap  to  the  day's  embrace, 
I  give  myself  to  the  light. 


22 


THE  SHRIVING 

BENEATH  a  breaking  sky 

Amid  the  wild  grass,  I 

Have  shrived  myself  anew; 

Austere,  immaculate,  withdrawn, 

The  Angel  of  the  Dawn 

Has  pierced  my  naked  heart  with  light 

And  sealed  my  brow  with  dew. 


23 


ON  THE  HILL-TOP 

FROM  the  cup  of  the  sky 
With  lips  long  starved 
I  drink  the  blue  dawn, 
Unafraid ; 
While  in  my  hands 
I  hold  the  earth,— 
A  sphere  of  green  jade 
Curiously  carved. 


24 


A  SUNSET 

FISH 
Silver 
Luminous 
Lazily  poised; 
Foam  streaks 
Of  far-off  ships: 

Tides 
Amber 
Fathomless ; 
Dark  waves 
Brooding  of  storm 
Eclipse. 


25 


TWILIGHT 

DUSK  the  grey  reaper  gathers  in 

The  golden  harvest  of  the  sky; 

Thin  and  more  thin 

The  failing  color  shows : 

Retarded  in  its  flight 

As  by  a  Titan's  touch 

The  rhythm  of  the  light 

Perceptibly  now  slows: 

The  old  earth,  tired  and  spent 

And  having  suffered  much, 

Yet  happily  content, 

Turns  with  a  drowsy  sigh 

Its  slow  cheek  to  the  night. 


26 


IN  THE  ORCHARD 

THERE   are   no   hours   more   gold  than   these 

Beneath  the  autumn  apple  trees, 

When  every  laden  twig  and  bough 

Is  bright  with  fruit  like  colored  flames : 

If  I  were  but  a  poet  now 

I'd  make  a  sonnet  of  their  names: 

There's  Belle  Fleur  Jaune  and  Belle  et  Bonne, 

Wonder  and  Duke  of  Wellington, 

Arkansas  Baptist  and  Louise, 

Victuals  and  Drink  and  Bread  and  Cheese, 

With  Texas  Pride,  Kentucky  Queen 

And  Salome  and  Magdalene, 

Gloria  Mundi,  Gtily  flower 

With  Winter  Wine  and  Sweet  and  Sour. 

Scarlet  and  gold  I  count  each  one 
From  Maiden 's  Blush  to  Jonathan, 
And  each  is  lovelier  than  the  rest; 
I  do  not  know  which  one  is  best. 


27 


BIRDS 

A  BLUEBIRD  in  an  apple  tree 
A  glad  adventure  is  to  me ; 

While,  sudden  glimpsed,  the  swallow's  dart 
Like  laughter  flicks  across  my  heart ; 

Grey-shadowed  gulls  with  wide  blown  wings 
Wake  in  me  vagrant  hankerings; 

A  silver  thrush  at  dusk  of  day 

Calls  from  dim  woods  and  then  I  pray. 


28 


HUMMING-BIRD 

THE  fashion  of  the  humming-bird  ;- 
At  soul  blithe  bee, 
Caught  in  a  case  of  Cloisonne 
From  oversea; 

A  little  whiff  of  Orient 
In  prim  New  England  morn, 
To  vex  the  heart  with  Araby 
And  leave  forlorn; 

A  vagrant  note  of  scarlet  joy 
That  bell  and  book  should  ban, 
A  bit  of  pagan  pageantry 
To  flout  the  puritan. 


29 


THRASHER 

THE  thrasher  in  my  aspen  tree 

Has  set  his  sleek  brown  throat  a-bubble; 

The  drollest  scamp  of  lovers,  he 

To  court  by  code  will  take  no  trouble; 

He  flouts  his  sweetheart  while  he  woos, 

Cajoles,  caresses,  spites  and  teases. 

Then  all  at  once  croons,  coaxes,  coos; 

He  plays  with  moods  just  as  he  pleases, 

A  puckish,  now  a  poignant,  note, 

Some  whimsy  of  a  waggish  wit, 

Then  all  Arcadia  in  his  throat; 

I  can  but  sense  the  drift  of  it, 

For  mortal  wits  at  best  are  thick 

When  love's  a-brewing, — more's  the  pity  ! 

But  this  is  clear;  Sweet,  Sweet,  come  quick! 

Come  merrily,  my  Pretty,  Pretty ! 


30 


CROW 

A  GENTLEMAN,,  sedate,  severe, 

In  black  habiliments  monastic, 

Of  sombre  mien  and  speech  austere, — 

To  dub  him  robber  were  fantastic! 

Indeed  his  solemn  cawings  say; 

Nine  flies  and  five  fat  slugs  each  day 

Suffice  for  my  ascetic  diet : — 

What  did  I  hear  you  mutter?     Corn! 

I  will  not  trouble  to  deny  it! 

Such  slanders  best  are  met  with  scorn  I 

Pax  tecum,  friend,  I  must  be  flying; 

The  hour  grows  late.     What's  that  you  say? 

The  Blacksmith's  old  white  mare  is  dying? 

The  Deacon's  early  garden's  sprouting? 

Thanks,  I'll  be  going  by  that  way; 

Caaa  caw!    We'll  settle  this  past  doubting. 


31 


CHICKADEE 

You  wee  grey  gamin  of  a  bird, 
Shy,  daring,  curious,  alert, 
Pranking  in  antic  airs  absurd, — 
An  arrant  flirt ! 

Frequenter  of  our  winter  boughs 
In  garb  as  staid  as  any  Quaker, 
A  bit  of  cricket  and  of  mouse 
Went  to  your  making,  merry-maker! 

You  darting,  starting  little  bobbin ! 
Our  snow-bound  days  it  seems  delight  you,- 
More  venturesome  than  wren  or  robin, — 
Bless  you,  you  saucy  little  sprite,  you! 


32 


THE  OAK  TREE 

WITH  the  wind  I  awoke 

In  the  night, 

Lying  huddled  and  warm 

Harkening  to  the  storm; 

Sudden  I  sat  upright, 

Beat  on  the  dark  with  a  cry, 

Knowing  that  you  my  own 

Mighty  and  steadfast  oak 
Were  fallen,  were  overthrown. 
Now  in  the  dark  I  lie 
Watching  the  altered  day 
Dawn  in  an  empty  sky. 


33 


A  BEE  SETS  SAIL 

THE  wind  blows  east,  the  wind  blows  storm, 
And  yet  this  very  hour 
I  saw  a  bumblebee  embark 
In  frigate  of  a  flower; 

An  admiral  in  epaulets, 
He  strode  the  scented  deck 
And  in  the  teeth  of  tossing  gales 
He  rode  without  a  wreck. 

More  valorous  adventurer 

I  never  hope  to  see, — 

Though  mariners  be  gallant  men, — 

Than  that  same  bumblebee. 


34 


THE  SUMACHS 
Fall 

WiDE-flocking  birds  of  scarlet  flame 

In  Orient  imaginings 

Which  yet  no  cage  could  hold  or  tame  .   . 

I  do  not  dare  draw  near 

Lest  there  should  suddenly  arise 

A  blinding  tumult  of  great  wings 

Whirled  upward  with  strange  tropic  cries. 


35 


THE  SUMACHS 
Winter 

GREY  with  the  cold 

They  shiver  bare  and  stark, 

Yet  holding  each  aloft 

Insistently,  defying, 

A  crimson  torch 

Whereof  the  spark 

Is  dying. 


36 


FOG 

Berkeley 

THE  wings  of  the  fog  have  brushed  the  barren 

hill-tops,— 

White  wings  poised  and  hovering  on  high! — 
Swift  wings  soar  and  sweep  across  the  heavens, 
The  wings  of  the  fog  have  blotted  out  the  sky! 

The  wings  of  the  fog  are  brooding  close  above 
us,— 

White,  white,  white  like  a  great  flag  unfurled ! — 

The  wings  of  the  fog  have  filled  the  air  with  blind 
ness, 

The  wings  of  the  fog  have  covered  all  the  world ! 


37 


BLITHE  BIRD  BOLD  BEE 

BLITHE  bird,  bold  bee 
Be  tolerant  of  me; 
Flit  near 
Blue  Chevalier 
Of  beechwood  tree. 

Swift  dragon-fly, 

No  alien  I ! 

Mine  host, 

Almost, 

In  inns  of  sky. 

Thrush,   robin,  wren, 
Greet  ye  again! 
Brave  company! 
To  me 
My  countrymen. 


38 


WINTER  IN  THE  SOUTH 

THE  north  land,  the  home  land, 
Ah  God!     If  I  were  there! 
Just  to  see  the  pointed  pines 
And  steepled  cedars  growing  .   . 
A  cold  air  and  a  keen  air 
And  the  snow 
Blowing. 


39 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST 

Rhymes  Written  Concerning 

Certain  Personages  and  Events 

in  New  England  History 


41 


THE  REGICIDE 

DEEP  are  God's  ways,  passing  man's  little  wit, 

His  wisdom  as  His  grace  is  infinite : 

His  will  be  done;  though  by  His  will  I  live 

Exiled,  an  outcast  and  a  fugitive, 

Destined  through  all  my  wanderings  to  spread 

Danger  like  pestilence,  to  eat  the  bread 

Of  charity  in  secret,  yea  almost 

Living  among  the  living  like  a  ghost, 

Shut  from  the  good  green  earth,  shut  from  the 

sky, 
A  dweller  in  dark  rooms,  until  I  die. 

His  will  be  done!     Have  I  not  done  His  will? 
Vengeance  is  mine,  He  saith ;  Thou  shalt  not  kill. 
Yet  for  the  sake  of  England, — England's  fate 
Hung  in  the  balance  while  the  seed  of  hate 
Sprang  to  red  war  and  he  who  wrought  it  so, 
Tyrant  and  traitor,  murderer  and  foe 
Of  England's  weal,  faithless  and  false,  a  thing 
More  like  a  wanton  woman  than  a  king, 

43 


44  THE  REGICIDE 

Ruled  in  a  bitter  and  a  cruel  reign 

And  lied  and  swore  and  broke  his  oaths  again. 


And  so  I  judged  him,  yea  and  put  my  name 
On  the  death  warrant,  witnessing  the  same.  .    .   . 
The  great  axe  cleft  the  air,  the  false  head  fell  .  .  . 
England !  O  proud  land  loved  and  served  too  well ! 
What  dooms  great  hearts  have  undergone  for  her ! 
Yet  fond  and  fickle,  foolish  like  the  cur 
Returning  to  his  vomit,  purged  in  vain, 
She  bows  beneath  the  tyrant's  yoke  again ! 

So  God  disposes  of  what  man  has  planned; 
The  shadows  shift  and  lengthen  and  the  sand 
Runs  from  the  hour-glass.     We  are  doomed  and 

driven, 

Vessels  without  a  compass.      I   have  given 
All  for  this  one  small  bitter  boon  of  life  .    .   . 
And  thou,  brave  heart,  O  well-beloved  wife, 
A  friendless  wilderness,  a  savage  sea 
Cry  dumb  denial  betwixt  thee  and  me! 
Day  follows  day,  so  age  creeps  on  apace, 
And  I  shall  die  and  never  see  her  face  . 


THE   REGICIDE  45 

Never  to  see  her  face  nor  England's  shore, 
Green  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord,  once  more, — 
England  and  all  life's  stately  ordered  ways, 
England  and  all  the  splendor  of  past  days! 
But  for  me  rather  endless  exile  spent 
In  hiding  on  an  uncouth  continent, 
Until  my  days,  like  dark  birds  that  have  flown, 
Are  told  and  I  die  nameless  and  alone. 

Lord,  who  hast  deigned,  to  compass  Thy  intent, 
To  make  of  me  an  humble  instrument, 
Be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  and  instil 
Thy  peace  within  my  heart;  have  I  not  done  Thy 
will? 


THE  WITCH 

So  please  your  Worship,  I'm  not  doing  any  harm ! 
An  old  lame  dame,  her  basket  on  her  arm, 
Hobbling  along  the  rutted  road  by  hitches, 
Hunting  for  herbs  beside  the  weedy  ditches.  - 
Spells,  did  you  say?    God's  mercy!  my  poor  jaws 
Are  fit  for  nothing  but  an  old  wife's  saws. 
You  heard  me  mutter?    Aye!  some  foolish  words 
Between  me  and  my  gossips  here,  the  birds, — 
Wee  saucy  merry  rascals,  cock  and  hen! 
He  roves  abroad, — a  way  with  gentlemen ! — 
She  sits  at  home,  snug  in  the  thorn-tree  boughs, 
And  plays  the  prude  and  keeps  his  little  house. 

Who's  coming  yon?    Eh !  who  but  Parson  Jones ! 
May  the  flesh  rot  from  off  his  marrow  bones ! 
"Doddering  old  scald  crazy  crone,"  he  said. 
Eh  well !  Eh  well !  Some  night  he'll  lie  abed 
'Twixt  dark  and  cockcrow  feeling  fifty  pins 
Pricking  his  lean  hide  and  his  scrawny  shins. 
Then  there's  that  Goody  Boltwood  and  her  brat, 
She  did  me  spite,  the  slut!  She'll  pay  for  that! 

46 


THE   WITCH  47 

Eh  hey!  Perhaps  I  know  a  thing  or  two 
Some  folks  would  give  a-plenty  if  they  knew! 
And  my  old  rheumy  eyes  have  seen  some  sights ! 
What  would  you  say,  along  o'  moonshine  nights 
When  proper  folk  are  snoring  sound  to  see, 
Down  in  the  Black  Swamp  by  the  willow  tree, 
The  devil,  fiddle  under  chin, 
Fiddling  away  as  gay  as  sin 
In  a  high  cocked  hat  and  scarlet  hose ; 
While  seventeen  imps  with  thumbs  to  nose 
Go  spinning,  kicking  heels  and  toes 
Till  one's  that  giddy  goodness  knows! 

What's  that  you  say?    A  witch?     Now  Heaven 

for  fend! 

I'm  a  poor  woman,  sir,  that's  near  her  end, 
And  an  old  tongue  does  sometimes  play  queer 

tricks. 
Eh!  Give  a  dog  a  bad  name  and  it  sticks. 


DAN  KELLOG  ENTERTAINS  SHAY'S 
ARMY 

WE'RE  Shay's  men,  fighting  men,  and  we  want 

rum; 
We're  dry,   dry  as   cinders   and  we'll   drink  till 

Kingdom  come; 
Shutesbury    and    Petersham,    Pelham    Hill    and 

Hollow, 
We're  ranting  roaring  rebels,  sir!  and  Shay's  the 

man  we  follow! 

Here  Tom  Conkey  sings  solus 

Old  man  Kellog  was  a  toper  and  a  Tory, 

He  swore  by  the  crown  and  he  lived  on  gin  and 

glory, 

He  drank  to  the  King  and  he  blessed  his  soul; 
They  came  to  tar  and  feather  him,  he  hid  him  in 

a  hole; 
He  took  his  boots  and  Bible  and  went  to  win  the 

war; 
Up  with  your  bumpers  boys  and  toast  our  host 

once  more! 

48 


DAN  KELLOG  ENTERTAINS  SHAY'S  ARMY  49 

Long-legged  stiff-necked  lean  pumkin-heads, 
There's  neither  man  nor  devil,  sir !  that  any  of  us 

dreads ! 

Rough  ready  roisterers  hailing  from  the  hills, 
Every  musket  has  its  ball  every  bullet  kills; 
We're  sick  of  courts  and  lawyermen  and  laws  and 

all  such  bunk, 
And  some  of  us  are  sober  but  most  of  us  are 

drunk : 
We've  had  one  revolution  and  we've  only  just 

begun, 
We've  had  one  revolution, — s'blood,  we'll  have 

another  one! 

For  we're  Shay's  men,  fighting  men,  full  of  rum 

and  sin. 
We'll  lick  the  whole  damn  continent  and  drink 

up  all  the  gin; 
Shutesbury    and    Petersham,    Pelham    Hill    and 

Hollow, 
Up  with  your  bumpers,  boys !  Shay's  the  man  to 

follow ! 


STEPHEN  BURROUGHS  DEFENDS 
HIMSELF 

AGAINST    ALL    SLANDERERS,    TRADUCERS    AND 
MALICIOUS    TONGUES 

Alias  Dams  ,    .   .  rascal  .   .   .  ripe  for  hell  .   .   . 
The  noted  Stephen  Burroughs  .  .   .  preacher, — 

Well? 

Scalawag,  schoolmaster,  vagabond  of  sorts, 
Pilloried,  whipped,  fined  in  a  dozen  courts, 
Old  Parson  Burroughs'  son  and  life-long  grief, 
Jail-bird,  imposter,  counterfeiter,  thief! 
Without  defender  and  without  a  friend, 
Foredoomed  to  hang!     Sirs,  have  you  made  an 

end? 

Such  titles  so  unsparingly  conferred 
Disprove  themselves.     Admitting  I  have  erred, 
Which  of  you,  gentlemen,  dare  cast  a  stone? 
To  err  is  human,  have  I  erred  alone? 

To  itemize  the  charge  .  .  that  coining  scheme  .  . 
/  was  the  dupe,  betrayed  by  that  old  dream 

50 


STEPHEN  BURROUGHS  DEFENDS  HIMSELF  51 

Of  turning  dross  to  gold, — a  luckless  quest 

Which  history  assures  us  has  obsessed 

The  minds  of  wise  men  since  King  Solomon, — 

Helvetius,  Sendevogius,  Pope  John; 

And  where  such  worthy  precedents  exist 

Proving  the  status  of  the  alchemist, 

Is  it  so  strange  that,  guileless  of  deceit, 

I  fell  the  victim  of  a  cunning  cheat? 

Touching  the  matter  of  those  sermons  now, — 
A  trifling  matter,   faith!    for  such  a  row! 
Whether  myself  had  written  them  or  not, 
They  had  their  brimstone  served  them  just  as  hot! 
Mean-minded  busybones,  they  got  their  dues! 
Thinking  to  trap  me  with  their  text;  "Old  shoes 
And  clouted  on  their  feet."     Ill-doomed  intent! 
I  preached  their  sermon!     Waxing  eloquent, 
I  proved  they  were  the  wearers  of  the  shoes,  the 

clouts 

Were  envies,  jealousies,  suspicions,  doubts; 
With  such  sleek  sophistries  as  parsons  use, 
Leaving  them  dumb,   condemned  by  their  own 

shoes ! 


52  STEPHEN  BURROUGHS  DEFENDS  HIMSELF 

Jail-bird  ?    In  sooth !  And  yet  who  needs  be  taught 
Five   greater   rogues   go   free    for    each   wretch 

caught  ? 

Judges  are  blind,  the  law  is  halt  and  lame, 
Lawyers  are  lies  and  justice  but  a  name? 
Again,  if  you  should  urge  that  I  perchance 
Have  strayed  in  paths  of  sinful  dalliance; 
What  heart  so  cold  but  knows  the  charms  of  love, 
As  witness, — Caesar,  Alexander,  Jove! 

Time  passes,  sirs,  when  all  is  done  and  said, 
We  live,  we  sin,  we  suffer,  we  are  dead; 
And  just  to  prove  I  don't  do  things  by  half, 
See,  I  have  written  my  own  epitaph; 
Stephen  etcetera,  student  of  arts, 
A  mind  of  talent  and  a  man  of  parts, 
Slandered,  maligned,  misrepresented, 
One  who  has  erred  yet  much  repented, 
A  gentleman,  a  scholar  and  a  wit  .    .    . 
Too  long,  you  say?    Then  just  write: — counter 
feit! 


THE  PRIVATEERS 

SLOOP  from  Magadore  with  ebony  and  gum, 
Schooner  from  San  Salvadore  loaded  down  with 

rum, 

Merchantman  from  Africa  with  ivory  and  gold, — 
Ho!  she'll  bring  a  pretty  price  when  her  cargo's 

sold! 

Blow  us  south  to  Rio  Grande,  blow  us  east  to 

Spain, 
Blow  us  north  to   Newfoundland  and  blow  us 

back  again. 
Here's  a  buss  for  Peg  and  Meg  and  Moll,  the 

pretty  dears, 
Every  lass  in  every  port  who  loves  the  privateers ! 

Schooner  from  the  Indies  with  silks  to  dress  a 
queen, 

Lumber  boat  with  beaver  skins  bound  for  Aber 
deen, 

Barque  from  Demerara  with  indigo  and  dyes, 

Malaga  and  Trinidad  to  make  a  Yankee  prize. 

S3 


54  THE  PRIVATEERS 

Run  the  colors  up  the  mast,  warn  her  with  a  shot, 
By  the  Lord,  she's  British,  boys,  give  it  to  her  hot! 
Half  the  game  is  Yankee  aim,  half  is  Yankee  luck; 
Round  shot,  grape  shot, — Glory  ho!  She's  struck! 

Ho!  Blow  us  south  to  Rio  Grande,  blow  us  east 

to  Spain, 
Blow  us  north  to  Newfoundland  and  blow  us 

back  again! 
Here's  a  buss  for  Nell  and  Belle  and  Poll  the 

pretty  dear, 
Where's  the  lass  in  any  port  but  loves  a  privateer? 


THE  PIONEER'S  THOUGHTS  TURN 
EAST 

ON  the  far  hill-side  in  the  spring 

I  drove  the  grey  team  harrowing, 

When  like  a  cry  within  my  breast 

A  word  thrilled  through  me; — west,  west,  west  I 

It  rang  and  rang  and  would  not  still 

Though  I  would  plough,  though  I  would  till, 

To  whatsoever  task  I  turned 

That  thought  still  bit  in  me  and  burned  .    .    . 

Ah  God!  my  little  hill-side  farm 

Green  pastured  in  the  east, 

Low  roofed  with  long  sheds  sheltered  warm, 

Smooth  fare  for  man  and  beast; 

At  dusk  I  see  within  my  mind 

Just  how  the  long  light  falls 

On  the  low-mounded  hills  behind 

And  on  the  old  stone  walls  .   .   . 

And  I  who  put  this  back  of  me 
Must  watch  strange  seasons  bring 
Their  arid  fruits,  and  friendless  see 
The  alien  face  of  spring. 

55 


GETTYSBURG 

How  can  I  bear  it?    Well  the  question's  fair, 
Yet  life  must  answer  it,  I  sometimes  think 
That  God  himself  can't  know  what  women  bear. 
Reach  me  that  skein  of  wool,  Dear.    No,  the  pink; 
The  rose  against  the  purple  makes  it  rich; 
And  still  we  go  on  sewing,  stitch  by  stitch, 
While  summer  ripens  with  a  scent  of  box 
Along  the  borders  belled  with  hollyhocks, 
The    fledglings    from    the    eaves    will    soon    be 

flown, — 
And  still  God  lets  this  wicked  war  go  on ! 

You  never  saw  my  sons,  you  say?     That's  true, 

You  didn't  come  to  town  till  sixty-two  .    .    . 

John  is  the  elder  one,  the  younger,  Paul, 

Is  dark  and  slight  while  John  is  fair  and  tall, 

Grey-eyed,  with  hair  the  color  of  ripe  corn; 

I  was  just  turned  nineteen  when  John  was  born. 

Paul  was  an  ailing  child,  I  used  to  fear 
Each  spring  he  wouldn't  see  another  year; 

56 


GETTYSBURG  57 

But  John  was  strong  and  hearty.     So  they  grew, 
And  they  were  all  the  world  to  me, — these  two! 
Then  Andrew  died,  the  fall  of  forty-seven; 
John  was  thirteen,  Paul  going  on  eleven, — 
Two  little  heedless  happy  lads,  half -grown, — 
And  I  was  left  to  care  for  them  alone. 

Only  a  mother  knows  with  what  heartache 
From  dark  to  dawn  a  mother  lies  awake. 
John  was  a  comfort,  to  be  counted  on, — 
No  woman  ever  had  a  better  son! 
But  Paul  was  contrary  and  proud  and  wild 
And  passionate  and  wilful  from  a  child, 
With  eyes  that  flashed  and  hair  just  like  a  girl's, 
Silky  and  thick  and  soft, — I  kept  those  curls! 
Always  the  two  of  them  were  falling  out, 
I  don't  know  what  their  quarrels  were  about, 
Only  if  John  liked  red  then  Paul  liked  blue; — 
And  yet  they  loved  each  other.   ...      So  they 

grew 

From  boys  to  men  and  I  began  to  fear 
The  day  when  they  would  find  some  other  woman 

dear. 
John  played  the  friend,  was  kind  but  never  cared ; 


58  GETTYSBURG 

I  was  his  only  sweetheart,  he  declared, 

And  he  would  never  have  another  one,  but  all 

The  pretty  girls  were  making  eyes  at  Paul. 


Then  the  war  threatened  .   .   .  broke.  .   .   .  Night 

after  night 
They  argued;  North  and  South  and  wrong  and 

right,— 
I  think  Paul  took  the  South' s  side  out  of  spite. 

Well  that's  my  story;  you  may  guess  yourself 
What  happened  after;  on  the  mantel  shelf 
There,  side  by  side,  stand  pictures  of  my  two; 
Paul  is  the  one  in  grey  while  John  wears  blue. 

See!  it  is  almost  finished,  just  this  row 
And  then  the  corner.    Women  sew  and  sew 
And  talk  of  trifles;  why  the  hens  don't  lay 
And  when  the  drought  will  break.    The  papers  say 
That  a  great  battle  has  been  fought 
At  Gettysburg.     Oh,  we  are  tamed  and  taught 
To  live  by  little  things  from  day  to  day. 


GETTYSBURG  59 

A  letter  ?  .   .   .  With  bad  news,  you  say  ...  Be 

quick ! 
Tell  me  the  worst !    My  boys  are  wounded  ?  .  .   . 

sick? 
Not  dead !  .   .   .  Not  he !  ...  Not  Paul,  my  little 

son! 
Oh  Christ!     If  it  had  only  been  the  other  one! 


FOR  ANY  LOVER 


PRELUDE 

SPRING  like  a  white  flame  has  swept  o'er 

The  hearts  of  lovers; 

They  that  loved  before 

Are  new  enkindled  as  from  hazel  covers, 

Delirious,  the  floods  of  love-song  pour. 

And  those  that  knew  not  love?     Ah!  they 

Are  pitiful  indeed! 

For  none  may  say 

What  measure  of  dim  longing  is  their  meed, 

Faint  troublous  tenderness  and  thoughts  astray. 

They  see  the  glad  leaf  leaping  from  the  seed, 

Yet  feel  no  stir: 

The  rune  they  cannot  read; 

They  sense  the  young  sap  surge  through  pine  and 

fir, 

Yet  know  not  what  they  need : 

63 


64  PRELUDE 

But,  piteous  in  wistful  wondering, 

Till,  sudden-wise, 

They  turn  and  kiss  and  cling ; 

Then  look  upon  the  world  with  altered  eyes 

And, — startled, — know  the  meaning  of  the  spring- 


THE  DREAMER 

AH  !  dreams,   dreams,  dreams, 

Ye  are  the  heart  of  me! 

The  white  ships  melt  in  the  mistland 

At  the  shadowy  verge  of  the  sea, 

And  where  they  go  I  do  not  know 

Nor  what  their  names  may  be; 

Ah!  dreams,  dreams,  dreams, 

Ye  are  the  heart  of  me! 


65 


PREMONITION 

I  DREW  the  curtains  of  my  heart, 

I  closed  the  shutters  tight; 

Then  searched  and  stopped  each  cranny 

In  dread  of  that  great  light 

Which  should  assault  its  casements; 

Then,  safe  from  sharpest  ray, 

Defied  in  stricken  darkness 

The  miracle  of  day! 


66 


HE  TROUBLES  ME 

HE  troubles  me;  I  cannot  sleep; 
While  dark  of  night  fades  into  dim 
I  can  do  naught  but  wake  and  weep 
Because  of  him,  because  of  him. 

He  troubles  me;  I  cannot  smile, 
For  when  I  would  mine  eyelids  swim 
And  all  the  world  goes  dark  a  while 
Because  of  him,  because  of  him. 

He  troubles  me;  I  cannot  pray; 
I  fear  the  jealous  seraphim 
That  guard  my  dreams  are  flown  away 
Because  of  him,  because  of  him. 


67 


LOVE'S  ADVENT 

I  THOUGHT  to  hear  high  silver  trumpets  blown 
Across  the  world  to  warn  me  Love  drew  near 
And  thrill  my  heart  with  rapture  and  with  fear; 
So  harkening,  heedless  of  One  long  known, 
Till  on  a  day  I  woke  to  find  him  grown 
Close  to   my   heart,    inestimably   dear; 
Then  when  I  thought  Love's  voice  at  last  to  hear 
Just  with  a  look  he  claimed  me  for  his  own. 


66 


LOVE'S  DAWN 

I  WAS  not  unaware  .   .   . 

For  tears  had  touched  my  eyelids  while  I  slept; 
I  woke  and  found  them  wet  upon  my  hair, — 
I  knew  it  was  for  no  light  thing  I  wept. 

I  rose  and  clad  me  in  my  whitest  gown, 
Through  the  hushed  hallways  silently  I  crept, 
And  still  the  strange  slow  tears  fell  softly  down; 
Still  must  I  weep  yet  knew  not  why  I  wept. 

I  turned  the  blind  key  in  the  creaking  lock, 
I  drew  the  door  wide  with  a  shaken  hand, 
I  had  not  heard  his  step  nor  known  his  knock, 
Yet  on  the  threshold  I  beheld  him  stand : 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  his  wings  I  knelt, 
He  took  my  hands  within  his  own  and  drew 
My  breast  against  his  bosom,   straight  I   felt 
His  tears  against  my  cheek  and  then  I  knew. 


69 


THE  SHADOW 

I  COULD  not  stay  to  bind  my  hair, 
I  could  not  stop  to  smooth  my  dress; 
There  was  no  moment  to  prepare 
So  sudden  was  the  blessedness. 

This  thought  struck  sharp  through  all  the  sweet; 
The  stains  upon  my  garment's  hem, 
The  dust  upon  my  toil-worn  feet, 
Alas !  what  will  he  think  of  them  ? 

Oh  Love,  my  Love,  I  grieve  with  shame, 

My  heart  is  shaken  with  distress, 

I  am  so  bitterly  to  blame 

For  this; — my  life's  unreadiness! 

He  smiled  and  spoke;     "Thy  garment's  hem 
Shines  as  if  woven  star  on  star; 
Thy  feet" — he  knelt   for  kissing  them — 
"Are  whiter  than  a  seraph's  are." 


70 


I  DARE  NOT  TELL 

I  DARE  not  tell  my  love  for  thee  aloud, 
So  worship  thee  in  dumbness,  O  Most  Dear! 
For  deep  within  my  thought  there  wears  a  fear  ;- 
That  I  in  speaking  love  should  spin  its  shroud. 

Yet  when  my  shaken  fingers  brush  thy  hand 
Or  when  my  thrilled  lips  tremble  on  thy  cheek,- 
This  wounding  wonder  that  I  may  not  speak,- 
Heart  of  my  Hope,  wilt  thou  not  understand? 


71 


THE  TRYST 

LAST  night  I  held  a  tryst 

With  my  Old  Self  who  died 

Three  days  ago.     I  drew  her  close  and  kissed 

Her  wistful  lips,   whereat  she,   wonder-eyed 

And  shaken;  Who  art  thouf 

Dost  know  me  not,  O  sister  mine? 

Nay,  thou  canst  be  no  kin  to  me! 

Lean  nearer,  look;  dost  know  me  now? 

Aye,  but — how  strange!  Your  hands  .    .    .  they 

shine! 

They  shine  for  they  have  lain  in  his. 
What  makes  that  light  about  your  brow? 
A  kiss. 

Ah!  I  have  dreamed, — I  know! 
But  not  that  it  would  be  like  this! 


72 


FOR  THEE 

FOR  thee  my  soul  puts  on  her  morning  face 
And  festal  robes ;  then  through  her  dwelling-place 
Hastens,  the  quick  breath  panting  to  her  lips, 
And, — prodigal! — lights  all  her  tallow  dips 
Until  the  dim  abode  is  starred  with  light 
And  all  who  pass  may  know ;  the  King  comes  here 
tonight ! 


73 


NOW  YOU  ARE  SLEEPING 

Now  you  are  sleeping  I'd  send  my  heart  to  you 
With  laden  fingers,  phantom-light,  to  strew 
Blossoms  of  balm  across  your  bitter  breast; 
And  on  your  brow  bruised  petals  wet  with  dew 
And  on  your  anguished  eyelids  herbs  of  rest. 


74 


AFFIRMATION 

DEAF,  I  would  no  less  tremble  to  your  voice; 

Blind  and  a  dweller  in  strange  lands, 

There  still  would  surge  through  me  sharp  singing 

joys 
At  touch  of  your  strong  hands : 

Dumb,  I  would  answer  to  your  word  of  love; 
Dead  and  forgotten  underneath  the  sod, 
If  you  set  foot  upon  the  turf  above 
Your  step  to  me  would  be  the  step  of  God. 


75 


THE  SHULAMITE 

/  am  black  .  .  .But  comely!  .  .  .  O  ye  daughters 

of  Jerusalem, 
As  the  tents  of  Kedar!  .    .    .  As  the  curtains  of 

Solomon! 

The  Song  of  Songs 

From  out  the  misted  margent  of  dead  years 
I  saw  a  masque  of  regal  women  move, 
And  some  were  pale,  some  passionate  with  tears, 
While  others  smiled;  these  were  the  Queens  of 

Love- 
Out  of  the  mists  they  moved  in  stately  wise, — 
Purple  and  gold  upon  each  garment's  hem,— 
And  looked  at  me  aloof  with  alien  eyes 
Who  let  them  go  and  spoke  no  word  with  them : 
So  passed,  till  suddenly  I  was  aware 
Of  one  who  moved  among  the  sandaled  throng 
Barefoot,  a  wreath  of  grape  bloom  in  her  hair, 
And  lips  that  seemed  to  tremble  with  stilled  song ; 
On  her  young  limbs  a  golden  hue  of  sun 

76 


THE  SHULAMITE  77 

That  pallid  made  appear  the  beauties  white, — 
Fairer  than  all  the  Queens  of  Solomon! — 
Who  art  thou  Loveliest  ?    The  Shulamite. 

The  cinctured  Queens  in  silent  scorn  depart. 
Tarry  Beloved,  we  are  one  at  heart! 


KISS  ME 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  were  afraid 

That  what  you  craved  might  be  gainsaid, 

As  if,   quite  recklessly,  you  tried 

At  venture,  fearful  lest  denied, 

And  thus  but  gained  a  moment's  bliss 

At  peril  of  displeasure, — kiss ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  knew  not  yet 
How  wholly  I  am  yours;   forget 
For  just  one  moment  that  you  know 
Both  heart  and  soul  are  yours ;  ah !  so 
As  if  you  scarce  dared  dream  that  this 
Were  possible  to  happen, — kiss! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  were  not  sure 
This  love  of  mine  would  long  endure, 
As  if  you  deemed  that  all  delay 
Were  dangerous  to  loving,  yea, 
As  if  you  did  not  dare  to  miss 
One  moment  while  love  lasted, — kiss! 


78 


THE  NEW  MOON 
Slavic  Love  Song 

ROUND  is  your  rim,  O  moon,  like  the  curve  of  my 

bosom, 
Yet  are  you  pointed  and  sharp  like  a  blade  of  fine 

metal ; 
I  will  stretch  out  my  hand  and  take  you  and  slip 

you  beneath  my  bodice, 
When  my  lover  embraces  me,  between  my  breasts 

he  will  feel  your  coldness; 
And  should  he  disdain  me,  with  you  I  will  pierce 

his  heart. 


79 


FANCY'S  GARDEN 

HOLLYHOCK  ; 

Sixteen,  a  muslin  frock, 

Petticoats,  pinafore, 

Sewing  a  seam; 

Sun  at  the  cottage  door, — 

Does  she  smile,  does  she  dream? 

Heigh-ho,   it's   four  o'clock, 

Come  skim  the  cream ! 

Marigold ; 

Tropic  eyes  black  and  bold, 
Earings  of  yellow  brass; 
What  will  my  fortune  be, 
Gipsy  lass,   gipsy  lass? 
Beauty,  brave  lovers  three, 
A  grave  by  the  cypress  tree  .    . 
The  coin  falls  to  the  grass  .    . 

Trumpet  vine; 
Banners  fly  bright  as  wine, 
Crimson  the  bugles  blare, 
80 


FANCY'S    GARDEN  81 

Red  beat  the  throbbing  drums, 
All  the  folk  run  and  stare; 
Heart,  heart,  be  wise,  beware! 
Why  should  he  care? 


Mignonette ; 

Dear,  leave  me  not  as  yet! 
Love  me  in  gentle  mood, 
Love  me  in  solitude : 
Draw  close  the  curtain's  fold, 
Shut  out  the  careless  street; 
Will  love  grow  ever  cold? 
Love  is  so  sweet ! 


Columbine ; 

Scarlet  lips  mocking  mine, 
Scarlet  skirts  all  a-blow; 
Where's  my  love  Pierrot? 
Once  he  loved  Pierrette, 
Now  she's  grown  thin  .    .   . 
Ah,  how  these  men  forget! 
Harlequin   .    .    .   Harlequin! 


82  FANCY'S  GARDEN 

Passion  Flower; 

Cloisters,  a  shadowed  hour, 

A  nun  in  a  purple  hood; 

Why  must  she  pray  so  long 

When  she  is  so  good? 

Prayers  for  true  lovers  dead, 

Prayers  for  those  soon  to  be, — 

Saint,  when  your  prayers  are  said, 

Say  one  for  me! 


THE  FEAR 

MAKE  me,  Most  Dear,  to  love  you  less, 
Lest  I  should  lean  on  you  and  twine 
Myself  too  close  until  you  be 
Burdened  by  love's  sweet  helplessness 
Like  the  ill-starred  though  sturdy  tree 
Weighted  by  the  slow  strangling  vine. 

So  spare  your  kiss,  forego  your  touch, 
Draw  your  deep  lips  away  from  mine : 
For  I  have  learned  what  wisdom  saith ; 
He  whom  a  woman  loves  too  much 
Drinks  as  it  were  a  drowsy  wine 
And  in  the  lees  of  it  lurks  death. 


83 


THE  MIRROR 

LOOK! — in  the  looking-glass  we  two 

Mirrored  a  moment,  I  and  you, 

Dark  head  and  fair,  grey  eyes  and  blue ; 

We  kiss,  they  clasp.  Tonight  we  go 
You  east,  I  west,  and  who  can  know 
When  you  will  once  more  hold  me  so? 

Yet  since  our  mirrored  selves  have  kissed 
Will  not  these  -shadow  shapes  persist, 
Ghost  lovers  in  a  timeless  tryst? 


84 


THE  WANDERER 

IN  the  early  dawn  of  a  morning  grey 
He  took  his  staff  and  departed; 
He  would  not  bide  though  I  bid  him  stay 
And  he  carolled  a  song  as  he  started. 

I   watched  him  go  from  the  courtyard  gate, — 
Leaden  the  skies  hung  o'er  him! — 
Down  the  path  where  we'd  walked  of  late, 
Till  the  world  spread  wide  before  him. 

He  carries  my  heart  in  the  scrip  at  his  side! 
My  love  is  the  flower  in  his  bonnet, 
And  his  leathern  coat, — Ah  woe  betide! — 
Is  warm  with  my  kisses  on  it. 

He  is  bearing  the  dreams  of  my  soul  at  his  belt 
And  my  prayers  within  his  grey  wallet 
And  all  the  joy  that  I've  ever  felt, — 
God  knows  what  may  chance  to  befall  it ! 

85 


86  THE   WANDERER 

He  has  left  me  of  his  but  a  ragged  glove, 
So  old  and  worn  that  he  tossed  it 
Down  by  the  gate; — did  you  dream,  my  Love, 
What  an  alms  you  gave  when  you  lost  it  ? 

He  has  left  me  naught  of  mine  own  but  tears 
And  the  hope  that  I  fain  would  cherish; 
The  first,  I  trow,  will  last 'me  for  years, 
But  alas!  if  the  hope  should  perish! 


HIS  LETTERS 

I  WOULD  be  free  of  love  that  gyves  and  grieves 
So  I  will  burn  his  letters  one  by  one, 
For  though  these  sheets  be  light  as  wintered  leaves 
Yet  burden  they  the  heart  they  lie  upon. 

His  letters,  one  by  one,  have  fled  in  flame, 
In  ashes  lie  the  burning  words  he  writ, 
All,  save  for  this  last  little  sheet, — ah  shame ! 
Although  I  would,  I  cannot  part  with  it! 


87 


HEIGH-HO 

HEIGH-HO  ! 

When  did  love  go? 

Ask  me  not,  I  do  not  know;— 

Last  night,  today,  a  week  ago! 

Who  saw  him  die? 
And  did  he  smile  or  did  he  sigh? 
A  tear,  a  laugh,  an  eyitaph.   .    ^  , 
Who  will  his  mourner  be? 
Not  I! 


LOVE'S  GRAVE 

DIG  me  a  grave  for  last  year's  love, 
Bury  him  dark  and  deep, 
So  with  the  green  o'  the  grass  above, 
Last  year's  love  may  sleep. 

At  his  head  and  his  feet  I  will  plant  a  red  rose, 
With  harebells  and  violets  blue, — 
Everything  fragrant  and  fragile  that  grows; 
But  over  his  bosom, — rue. 


89 


HUMORESQUE 

HEART,  heart,  O  where  for  so  threadbare? 
Are  there  not  gems  and  golden  gauds  to  wear, 
And  many  merry  dominoes  fit  for  a  carnival, 
And  scores  of  silk  and  satin  gowns  all  hanging 
on  the  wall? 

Heart,  heart,  why  goest  so  forlorn? 

Put  by  your  robes  of  penitence,  your  grey  cloak 

dim  and  worn, 
Put  on  some  golden  vanity  with  rosy  ribbands 

gay, 
And  then  pretend  it's  festival  and  play  at  holiday! 


90 


THE  RAIN 

THE  phantom  fingers  of  the  rain 
Are  tapping  at  my  window-pane, 
And  in  the  dripping  from  the  leaves, 
The  running  murmur  in  the  eaves, 
A  whisper  sounds;  Do  you  remember 
That  windy  wild  day  in  November, 
You  two  together  in  the  mist 
And  how  he  drew  you  close  and  kissed  ? 
O  wraith  hands  at  my  window  sill, 
O  wistful  phantom  hands,  be  still! 
His  cheek  against  mine  warm  and  wet, 
The  mist,  the  kiss  .   .   .  could  I  forget? 


91 


RENUNCIATION 

I  AM  aweary,  droop  thy  mantle,  Sweet; 
Let  fall  its  folds  about  me  for  a  space, 
Bowing  thy  head,  that  I  who  clasp  thy  feet 
May  once  more  touch  thy  face. 

Strong  arms  that   fain  would  hold  me  high 
Against  the  world,  close  me  in  last  caress; 
I  could  not  match  thy  stature, — no,  not  I ! 
See,  I  have  striven  and  won  weariness ! 

O  bright  brave  head!  O  high  and  lordly  Love! 
All  can  I  bear  except  to  see  thee  low; 
Stay  not  for  pity, — I  am  well  enough — 
Bend  once  above  me,  kiss  me  and  then  go. 


92 


FOR  ANYONE 


TRYPTICH  IN  ASH  AND  EBONY 
LEFT  PANEL 

THREE  CENTURIONS 

What  have  we  here  today? 

A  brace  of  thieves. 

In  Rome  they  keep  such  punishments  for  slaves. 
Freemen  or  bondsmen  all  these  Jews  are  knaves. 
The  third?     A  crazed  fanatic  who  believes 
In  some  new  sect,  no  one  knows  what  or  why. 
New  Gods  are  born  as  fast  as  old  Gods  die, 
And  who  can  tell  the  false  God  from  the  true  ? 
I  saw  strange  things  in  the  Numidian  war. 
No  God  is  worth  a  strong  man's  dying  for! 
He  came  to  save  the  world,  so  Sextus  said. 
The  world  will  save  itself  when  he  is  dead. 
And  so  it  will,  my  friend,  when  I  and  you 
Like  him  have  died  and  been  forgotten  too. 


95 


RIGHT  PANEL 

A  GROUP  OF  SOLDIERS 

Give  me  the  coat. 

It's  mine. 

You  thief,  you  lie! 
Take  it  then  if  you  dare! 

I  had  it  first. 

The  greedy  vulture  plucks  men  as  they  die. 
You  and  your  vultures,  dirty  dog,  be  cursed! 
Peace  to  your  quarrel,  brawlers,  give  it  here; 
Verrus,  your  knife,  we'll  cut  the  cloth  in  two. 
You'll  spoil  a  rare  fine  bit  of  weaving  if  you  do! 
Leave  it  to  luck  then;  let  the  dice  decide. 
What  was  that  noise? 

A  woman  standing  near 
Reached  through  the  press  and  touched  the  coat 

and  cried. 

Plague  take  the  women !  What  do  they  want  here  ? 
Back  I  Give  us  space. 

Ho!  Quintus  is  cross-eyed, 
Watch  how  he  squints. 

96 


A   GROUP    OF    SOLDIERS  97 

He's  muttering  a  charm. 
Look  out  for  Caius,  he  has  crooked  dice ! 
Speak  for  yourself! 

Mercury,  jog  his  arm! 
Room  for  my  elbow!  Back,  you  beggar's  lice! 


CENTRAL  PANEL 

THE   TWO   THIEVES 

BROTHER,  why  dost  thou  hang  so  high? 
The  moon  was  darkened  in  the  sky 
And  he  was  rich  and  very  old, 
An  old  bald  miser  hard  as  hate, 
What  use  had  he  for  all  that  gold? 
Cursed  be  the  Romans  and  their  law! 
I  robbed  the  coffer,  gained  the  gate, — 
The  sleeping  slaves  lay  close  about, — 
And  suddenly  the  moon  came  out 
And  the  watch  saw. 

And  I,- 

At  the  end  of  the  night  on  the  Joppa  road 
I  slit  his  throat 
And  so  he  died; 

I  wouldn't  have  killed  him  but  he  cried, — 
A  sickly  beggar  full  of  sores 
With  a  few  coins  in  his  begging  bowl; 
I  hid  his  body  in  a  hole, 

98 


THE  TWO  THIEVES  99 

They  tracked  me  by  my  bloody  coat : 
Curse  them,  these  Roman  sons  of  whores  1 

And  what  of  him  who  makes  the  third, 
Who  hangs  and  does  not  speak  a  word? 

Hast  thou  not  heard? 

It  is  the  son  of  Joseph,  he 

Men  call  the  Christ. 

Ho!  Jesus,  be 

Thou  Christ  or  Prophet,  speak  and  loose 
These  nails  that  pierce  us,  set  us  free! 
Or  has  thy  God  forsaken  thee? 
Curse  thee,  thou  saviour  of  the  Jews! 


A  ROOM 

THE  ROSEWOOD  CABINET 

CRYSTALS  for  scent,  silver  for  snuff  and  patches, 

Carnelian,  lacquer,  ivory  and  gilt, 

A  brooch  of  filagree,  a  clasp  that  matches, 

A  crucifix,  a  fan,  a  dagger's  hilt; — 

These,  treasured  once  by  buried  beaux  and  belles 

Of  antique  elegance,  what  are  they  more 

Than    driftwood,    shining    pebbles    and    strange 

shells 
Left  by  the  Past's  spent  tide  along  Time's  shore? 


100 


A  JAPANESE  PRINT 

A  DRAGONFLY 

Alighting; 

A  thin  blade  of  sedge; 

Three  grey  green  stalks 

Cut  by  the  paper's  edge   .    .    . 

Straws,  meadow  grass, 

Insects   .    .    . 

Why  should  we  lack  for  art 

With  such 

As  texts? 


101 


SPINET 

IN  you  frail  melodies  exist 

Like  fine  rain   falling   from  a  mist,- 

Imagined  fantasies  persist. 

So  your  quaint  cadences  designed 
In  antique  patterns  haunt  the  mind 
Like  phantoms   fugitive  as  wind- 


THE  HORSEHAIR  SOFA 

FOR   fleshly  penitence   devised, 

New  England's  conscience  symbolised, 

The  Ten  Commandments  on  a  platter, — 

Pantalettes,  prayer-books,  prunes  and  prisms, 

Longer  and  shorter  Catechisms, — 

Morals  triumphant  over  matter! 


103 


THE  PORTRAIT 

So  you're  the  stock  from  which  our  race  derives, — 
You  and  your  three  prim  unprotesting  wives  ; 
Painted  by  Stuart,  A.  D.  eighteen-two, 
He  knew  the  breed  and  so  he  painted  you. 

Well  sir,  it's  plain  to  see  you  liked  old  sherry 
And  wagged  a  warm  tongue  when  the  hour  grew 

merry, 

Yet,  duly  decorous,  performed  your  duty 
Toward  God,  and — kept  a  keen  eye  out  for  female 

beauty. 

So  passed  a  long  life  spent  in  honest  labour 
Getting  the  better  of  your  crafty  neighbour. 

As  to  religion,  staunchly  orthodox, 
Taking  no  chances  on  hell  fire, — sly  fox! 
In  seventy-five  you  swore  yourself  a  Tory, 
In  seventy-six,  ah,  that's  another  story! 
Finding  the  King's  cause  isn't  worth  a  groat, 
You  trim  your  sails  and  turn  your  Tory  coat. 

104 


THE    PORTRAIT  105 

By  eighteen-twelve  you  were  as  firm  and  fiery 
As  any  patriot.     You  kept  a  diary 
In  which  we  find  recorded  acts  and  attitudes, 
Politics,  petty  plots  and  pious  platitudes. 

Four  score  and  ten  you  died  in  twenty-seven, 
Mourned  by  six  sons; — such  are  the  saints  in 
Heaven ! 


THE  LITTLE  DANCER 
I 

0  LIGHT  my  feet  and  light  my  fancies, 
And  light  as  fleet  my  flitting  dances; 

1  could  not  sink  were  worlds  to  drown : 
Come,  wind,  and  take  me! 

I  am  thistledown. 

II 

To  each 

I  speak  in  different  speech, 
I  give  a  different  gift   .    .    . 
To  some  magic  and  mysteries, 
To  one  a  white  moth's  kiss, 
To  others  rainbows,  dew; 
What  shall  I  give  to  you? 

Ill 

Dance  with  me  O  lover  of  mine 
And  I'll  give  you  a  kiss  in  a  cup  of  wine, 
A  golden  bow  and  a  silver  dart 
And  wild  wings  to  nest  within  your  heart. 
106 


THE  LITTLE  DANCER  107 

IV 

What  would  you  have  me  be? 
A  dryad  who  has  left  her  home 
In  some  wind-wakened  aspen  tree  ? 
A  sea-sprite  laughing  from  the  foam? 
A  far  cloud  drifting  in  the  sky? 
A  bird  alighting  on  a  bough? 
A   flower,   a  bee,   a  dragonfly? 
What  would  you  have  me  now? 


V 


I  wonder  if  you  guessed 

Where  I  was  dancing,  just  a  breath  ago 

Where?     Why  on  heaven's  roof, 

Across  a  velvet  carpet,  warp  and  woof 

Woven  of  shining  strands  of  azure  air; 

Against  my  breast 

The  wind  blew  sharp  as  scimitars 

And  all  about  my  feet 

Like  shining  petals 

Lay  lost  stars. 


108  THE   LITTLE    DANCER 

VI 

Wind  of  the  sky! 

Leap  down  your  sunlit  stairs 

Bright  with  wild  winey  airs, 

Suddenly,  unawares, 

Lift  me  and  bear  me  high! 

Wind  of  the  sea; 
Fathoms  of  foam  and  thunder, 
Dirge  of  the  dim  sea- wonder 
Hidden  the  deep  tides  under, 
Croon  to  me,  comfort  me. 

Wind  of  the  night; 
Steal  shadow- footed,  frail, 
Wreathed  darkly  veil  on  veil, 
Lift  up  your  taper  pale 
Set  all  the  stars  alight! 

Wind  of  the  dawn! 
Under  the  sky's  blue  eaves 
Shake  light  in  silver  sheaves, 
Waken  the  dew-wet  leaves, 
Darkness  is  gone! 


THE   LITTLE   DANCER  109 

VII 

O  blind  to  beauty, — unconfessed, — 
Even  to  you  I  bring  unguessed 
My  vision,  though  you  only  know 
Softness  has  touched  your  heart, — 
Like  snow. 


IDYLLE  FRANCAISE 

WHERE   the   slow   stream  winds   by  the  linden 

boughs 

Grave  as  a  grey  owl  sits  the  dim  old  house, 
Here  for  a  whim  the  two  of  us  must  dine,— 
Salade,  des  escargots,  with  thin  red  wine, 
Coffee  and  cheese,  a  sweet  tarte  de  Lorraine, — 
And  we  could  see  through  the  bright  window-pane 
The  garden  like  a  door-step  paradise,— 
If  God  should  make  His  heavens  pocket-size! 

Talk  dragged;  I  asked;  Madame  she  lives  alone? 
You  smiled;  Monsieur  plays  Darby  to  her  Joan; 
Forty  years  wed,  I  think  you'd  find  them  quaint; 
Madame  like  some  aged  patient  kindly  saint, 
Patron  of  housewives,  saint  of  sauce-pans,  yet 
Feminine,  French,  incurably  coquette! 

Let's  have  them  in !    We  plead;  at  last  they  came, 
Monsieur  decrepit,  bleary-eyed  and  lame, 
Madame,  deep-bosomed,  amply  broad  of  lap, 
All  softly  wrinkled  under  her  frilled  cap: 

110 


IDYLLE  FRANCAISE  111 

She  pours  the  coffee,  wags  a  gossip's  tongue; 
Those  days  of  gold,  mon  Dieu,  when  we  were 

young ! 

None  was  si  beau,  si  fort  as  Monsieur  then! 
And  now  so  frail,  but  headstrong ! — ah,  these  men ! 
He  pays  no  heed  to  all  her  cautioning ! 
Whereat  he  shrills;  She  wants  to  tie  a  string 
About  my  leg  to  keep  me  like  her  bird! 
Madame  sighs,  dimples,  twitters  on;  Absurd! 
And  yet  my  prayer  is  that  each  of  us  dies 
The  self-same  hour.     She  smiles  into  his  eyes, 
Then  lifts  the  coffee-cups  and  turning  hides 
A  bright  face  beautiful  as  any  bride's. 

Forty  years  wed  .  .  .  Close  to  the  window-pane 
The  roses  blossomed  fresh  with  the  night's  rain; 
Forty  years  wed  .  We  two  in  forty  years  .  .  . 
And  suddenly  the  roses  blurred  in  tears. 


HADLEY  MEADOWS 

BY  Hadley  elms  the  wide  fields  lie; 
Here  under  a  New  England  sky 
Ringed  by  the  blue  New  England  hills 
Old  Europe  ploughs  and  sows  and  tills. 

Yon  barefoot  daughter  of  the  soil, 
Broad-bosomed,  bending  to  the  toil, 
Just  such  a  stubborn  grace  is  hers 
As  Millet  gave  his  harvesters! 

Patient  she  spends  her  old-world  strength 
Plodding  along  the  furrowrs  length, 
Then,  at  a  cry,  turns,  bares  her  breast 
And  sets  her  suckling  babe  at  rest. 


112 


THE  FERRIES 
San  Francisco  Bay 

THEY  shaped  us  not  for  man's  delight, 
Nor  moulded  us  in  armoured  might, 
We  were  not  planned  for  grace  nor  speed, 
But  builded  for  a  people's  need. 

The  white  curled  wavelets  laugh  for  glee, 
Toss  their  heads  and  shout  of  the  sea; 
Through  gates  of  gold  sifts  singing  wind;- 
Are  we  so  deaf,  are  we  so  blind? 

Dull  plodding  shapes  all  day  we  ply 
Past  where  the  deep-sea  vessels  lie, 
To  and  fro  between  our  goals 
Carrying  so  many  thousand  souls. 

And  think  you  not  that  we  too  feel 
The  prick  of  the  brine  beneath  the  keelf 
And  think  you  not  within  us  stirs 
The  lust  of  the  far  sea  voyagers? 
113 


114  THE   FERRIES 

Close  anchored  by  the  ferry  slip, 

We  pass  by  many  a  gallant  ship 

Back  from  its  wanderings  over  the  world, 

Storm-beaten  canvas  folded  and  furled. 

What  word  bring  you  of  alien  strands? 
What  cargoes  shipped  from  fabled  lands f 
What  gossip  of  the  seven  seas? 
What  loot  from  the  Antipodes? 

Dull  plodding  shapes  all  day  we  ply 
Past  where  the  deep-sea  vessels  lie, 
To  and  fro  between  our  goals 
Carrying  so  many  thousand  souls. 


THE  LISTENER 

THE  music  will  not  leave  your  face  alone, 
It  shapes  it  as  a  sculptor  carves  his  stone; 
With  touches  unimaginably  deft, 
It  frets  it  into  haggard  arcs  of  pain 
Then  curves  it  back  to  loveliness  again, 
It  stops  and  there  is  only  marble  left. 


115 


THE  MARIONETTES 

FROM  your  shy  little  curls  to  your  prim  little  toes 
Lady,  I  love  you;  eyes,  ears,  chin  and  nose 
Beguile  me,  bewitch  me.     So  you  like  the  pose? 
Have  you  a  heart?     Ah,  that  is  the  riddle! 
I  kneel  at  your  feet,  1  plead.     O  fiddle! 
Your  courting  is  crude,  it  lacks  finesse   .    .    . 

Look  at  the  moon,  it  is  made  of  honey 

And  shines  for  true  lovers.     You  digress, 

The  question  is;  have  you  any  money? 

A  handful  of  silver,  more  or  less; 

What  does  it  matter?     Kiss  me  again, 

My  heart  is  your  own  for  ever  and  ever; 

We'll  go  to  the  priest  if  you'll  only  say  when. 

The  next  blue  moon !    But  you  love  me !    Never ! 

Hey,  hi  diddle,  diddle! 

You've  got  it  all  wrong! 

Your  bright  sword  is  tin, 

Your  neck  is  too  long, 

Your  legs  are  too  thin, 

116 


THE  MARIONETTES  117 

And  I  don't  like  the  way  your  hair  parts  in  the 

middle ! 

So  your  love  is  a  lie! 
And  I  thought  you  a  saint ! 
But  no,  you  are  nothing  but  pertness  and  paint. 
My  heart  is  broken  and  I  shall  die. 

Bell,   ring  his  knell;   ding,  dong!   What  a  jest! 
See,  he  lies  dead,  his  poor  heart  is  broken! 
It  was  only  a  plaster  heart  at  best. 
Now  draw  the  curtain,  the  piece  is  all  spoken. 


CAPRICE 

CAPRICE 

Is  gold; 

An  orange-colored  toy  balloon, 

The  tinkle  of  a  tambourine, 

Pollen  that  makes  the  brown  bee  bold,- 

Caprice 

Is  green   .    .    . 

A  hurdy-gurdy's  tangled  tune, 

The  tassel   from   a  jester's  shoe, 

A  faun's  dream  in  mid-afternoon, 

Caprice 

Is  blue   .    .    . 

Soap-bubbles  blown  by   Pierrot, 

An  errant  dragonfly  or  two, 

Venetian  lanterns  hung  a-row, — 

Caprice 

Is  you. 


118 


THE  HOMESTEAD 

THIS  is  my  father's  father's  house; 
Within  this  dooryard  each  tall  tree 
That  yearns  toward  heaven  with  its  boughs 
Roots  deep  within  the  past  of  me. 

The  rose-bush  by  the  door  is  red 
With  passion  of  strong  lovers  gone, 
And  fragrant  of  dear  women  dead 
Who  travailed  that  I  might  be  born. 

The  low  porch  hung  about  with  vines, 
The  dim  hearth-stone,  the  wide  front  door, 
Are  precious  to  me  as  old   shrines 
Because  they   loved  them   long  before. 

The  very  earth  is  dear; — to  pass 
Down   from  the  door-step  to  the  street 
On  flaggings  rimmed  about  with  grass 
And  worn  by  little  children's   feet! 
119 


120  THE  HOMESTEAD 

In  hall  and  chamber,  everywhere 
Are  gracious  presences;  it  seems 
Light  footsteps  linger  on  the  stair, 
Soft  voices  haunt  the  rafter  beams. 

But  closest,  when  at  dawn  I  wake 
I  feel  those  same  shy  gentle  souls, — 
Just  so,  they  watched  the  slow  light  break, 
Just  so,  they  heard  the  orioles! 


THE  LAST  DESIRE 

THE  fields  were  golden  when  I  died, 
For  that  was  in  the  spring; — 
It  was  so  hard  to  go  away 
And  leave   them   blossoming! 

I  craved  a  little  meadow  flower 
To  clasp  within  my  hand; 
They  looked  at  me  with  wistful  eyes 
And  did  not  understand. 

They  brought  me  lilies  for  my  brow 
And  roses  for  my  breast; 
They  stripped  great  gardens  bare  for  me 
Of   all   their   loveliest: 

Nor  ever  guessed, — who  loved  me  so ! — 
That  what  I  craved  might  be 
A  common  crimson  clover-top 
To  take  away  with  me. 


THE  DEAD 

Do  they  sleep,  the  Dead? 
Both  the  evil  and  the  good 
In  coffins  made  of  cedar  wood, 
Shrouded,  lapped  in  lead? 

Do  they  sleep,  the  Dead? 

Mid  rusted  ruin  of  old  wars, 

Snapped  swords  and  shattered  scimitars? 

Sealed  in  precious  perfumes,  hid 

In  Egypt's  ageless  pyramid; 

Far  in  some  strange  sun-scourged  land, 

White  bones  blenched  upon  the  sand; 

Or  where  wild  waves  cover  them, 

Rock  and  roar  a  requiem? 

Do  they  sleep,  the  Dead? 

Whether  ashes,  whether  dust, 
Whether  cased  in  rot  or  rust, 
Wrapped  in  white  and  locked  with  lead, 
Do  they  sleep,  the  Dead? 


122 


UPSTAIRS 

UPSTAIRS  they  say  'tis  sunshine, 
Upstairs  they  say  'tis  spring; 
And  that  means  honey-locusts 
And  blue  flags  blossoming. 

They  think  the  spring  is  not  for  us, 
Upstairs,  yet  even  so 

A  warmth  has  thrilled  the   frozen  breasts 
Of  us  who  lie  below. 


123 


THE  ANGEL 

ONCE  it  was  told  me  by  a  man  of  God 
That  close  to  each  of  us,  unguessed, 
Serene  of  brow  and  radiant  of  breast 
The  Angel  of  God's  Presence  trod. 

Since  then  at  times  it  seems  I  am  aware, 
Passing  perhaps  along  a  twilight  street, 
Of  a  faint  sound  like  sandalled  certain  feet 
Which  echo  my  own  footsteps  everywhere. 

And  once  when  strong  fears  shot  their  shafts  at 

me 

I  heard  a  still  clear  silver  voice  which  said: 
"Oh  lonely  child  of  God  be  comforted 
For  where  thou  goest,  lo  I  go  with  thee." 


124 


AT  BETHANY 

WE  went  in  silence,  save,  a  whisper  ran 
Throughout  the  people :     Who  is  then  this  man 
And  what  thing  doeth  he?    This  none  did  know, 
Yet  still  we  followed.     Whither  do  we  go? 
To  Lazarus.     But  he  hath  lain  in  shroud 
Four   days  and  nights.     A  murmur   shook  the 

crowd. 

Yet  still  we  followed;  at  the  burial  place 
I,  watching,  saw  upon  the  Master's  face 
A  strangeness  gather, — as  a  light, — until 
Mine  eyes  went  blind  a  space :  the  world  was  still : 
Then    words    of    strong    command    smote    the 

strained  ear, 

I  saw  men  shudder:  a  great  tide  of  fear 
Swept  us  at  sight  of  that  I  dare  not  name; 
The  women  flickered  like  wind-beaten  flame; 
I  turned  to  flee,  made  faint  with  dread  and  awe, 
But  in  that  moment  at  His  side  I  saw, — 
As  sun  in  storm  rending  the  gloom  thereof, — 
The  face  of  Mary  mad  with  joy  and  love! 


125 


LIFE 

LIFE   bears   great   alabaster   jars 

Of  gold  and  purple  gifts, 

Flowers,  arrows,  stars   .    .    . 

Kneeling   I   lift 

My  arms  to  her  with  pleas 

And  touch 

Her  knees. 

Life  smiles  and  bends, 

The  gleaming  shower  descends; 

Nay,  I  am  overwhelmed  by  such 

Vast  bounty !  Cease ; 

It  is  too  much! 


126 


LASSES  LOVE 


THE  WAY  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS 

I  PUT  my  Sunday  bonnet  on, 
With  roses  'round  the  brim, 
My  buckled  shoes,  my  muslin  frock, — 
All  for  the  sake  of  him. 

I  never  looked  about  the  church, 
As  some  I  know  of  do! 
But  quiet  as  a  Quakeress 
Sat  all  the  service  through. 

The  preacher  drew  his  text  from  Luke;- 
Whom  went  ye  out  to  see? 
Old  Uncle  Eben  took  a  nap 
Two  seats  in  front  of  me; 

The  doctor's  wife  was  dressed  in  silk, 
The  sempstress  wore  her  shawl; 
The  way  of  righteousness  is  hard, — 
He  wasn't  there  at  all! 


129 


THE   MESSAGE 

IF  you  should  see  my  dear  Love, — 
Now  mark  you  how  he  looks ! — 
Tell  him  the  spice-bush  blossoms 
Along  the  upland  brooks; 

The  plum  trees  in  the  valley 
Are  white,  but  whiter  still 
Tell  him  the  wilding  cherry 
Shakes  snow  on  Thornton  Hill; 

Tell  him  the  meadow  marshes 
Are  brimmed  with  cowslip  gold, — 
And  mind  you  how  he  answers 
When  you  have  told! 


130 


THE  DAISY 

I  ASKED  a  daisy  of  my  Love 
And  it  was  very  good, 
It  answered  me ;  He  loves  you  true ! 
As  I  had  hoped  it  would. 

If  I  had  let  the  matter  rest 
Nor  asked  another  one, 
I  would  have  had  a  bit  of  joy 
That  night  to  dream  upon; 

But  though  like  fallen  flakes  of  snow 
The  foolish  petals  dot 
The  meadow  grass,  now  each  declares; 
He  loves  me,  loves  me  not! 


131 


THE  CALENDAR 

THE  first  time  that  I  saw  my  Love 
It  was  at  Eastertide; 
I  dreamt  a  dream  on  Whitsunday 
That  I  would  be  a  bride; 

Mayday  he  said:    "My  dear,  my  own;" 
They  tell  me  men  deceive!— 
I  gave  him  all  my  heart  in  June; 
Now  'tis  Midsummer  Eve; 

So  fast  the  summer  months  come  on, 
So  fast  they  slip  away! 
And  will  he  love  me  Hallowe'en? 
And  wed  me  Christmas  Day? 


132 


IF  I  WERE  A  LAD 

IF  I  were  a  lad 
I  would  run  away  to  sea, 
All  to  let  a  thousand  leagues 
Lie  'twixt  him  and  me; 

And  in  an  alien  country 

Across  the  world  from  here 

I'd  dwell,  where  none  would  ever  speak 

Of  him  who  was  my  Dear; 

For  oh!  my  heart  is  wrung  with  pain 
By  that  which  once  wras  sweet; — 
To  hear  his  step  at  twilight 
Echo  down  the  street! 


133 


I  LOVED  IN  LAUGHTER 

I  LOVED  in  laughter  for  a  space, 
Then  for  a  while  I  loved  in  pain; 
New  fancies  former  moods  efface; 
Now  I  am  out  of  love  again! 

The  world  is  wide,  a  happy  place, 
The  clouds  blow  by,  blue  skies  remain ; 
The  winter  goes  and  leaves  no  trace; 
And  I — am  out  of  love  again! 


134 


FOR  A  CHILD 


TREE 

I  LAY  my  cheek  against  your  bark, 
My  arms  along  a  bough, 
I  pluck  a  little  spray  of  you 
To  bind  about  my  brow. 

I  whisper  secret  words  to  you, 
You  whisper  back  to  me, 
I  brush  your  leaves  across  my  lips, 
Because  I  love  you,  tree. 


137 


GOOSE-GIRL 

WHITE  geese  and  grey 
In  a  willow  wood; 
The  white  geese  stray, 
The  grey  are  good. 

I  watch  all  day, 
As  a  goose-girl  should, 
White  geese  and  grey 
In  a  willow  wood. 


138 


FROM   THE  NURSERY   WINDOW 

THE  Jack-olantern  moon  looks  down 
Upon  the  treetops  of  the  town, 
And  in  the  branches  there  are  shapes 
Of  gnomes  and  dancing  bears  and  apes; 
The  elm-tree  dog  sits  up  and  begs, 
The  plum-tree  man  with  crooked  legs 
He  lifts  his  cup  but  never  drinks   .    .    . 
The  grinning  moon  peeps  down  and  winks, 
The  goblin  in  the  old  pear  tree 
Sticks  out  his  twisted  tongue  at  me. 


139 


COLUMBINES 

COLUMBINES  are  bells 

Hung  in  airy  steeples 

By  the  faerie  peoples, 

Chiming  pixie  spells, 

Tolling  elfin  knells : 

Winds  that  set  the  grasses  quaking, 

Start  each  tiny  clapper  shaking; 

Winds  that  blow  the  leaves  a-twinkle 

Set  each  scarlet  bloom  a-tinkle 

Down  the  ferny  dells: 

Swaying,  swinging, 

Chiming,   ringing, 

Columbines 

Are  bells! 


140 


THE  FAIRY  FROCK 

IT'S  primrose  petals  for  a  gown, 

For  sempstress  spiders  three, 

It's  gossamer  and  thistledown 

To  make  my  frock  for  me. 

Then  hie  thee  straight  to  cobbler  toad 

Beneath  the  hornbeam  tree 

Beyond  the  turning  of  the  road 

To  shape  my  shoes  for  me. 

Then  put  a  dewdrop  in  my  hair, 

Fetch  me  my  cobweb  shawl, 

And  call  my  cricket  coach  and  pair 

To  drive  me  to  the  ball! 


141 


THE  ELF-CHILD 

I  SIT  within  the  chimney-nook 
And  eat  my  cream  and  curds; 
I  do  not  mind  the  dame's  sour  look, 
Nor  heed  her  scolding  words : 

I  never  rue  their  bitter  speech 
Nor  brood  upon  their  taunts, 
For  oh !  my  heart  is  out  of  reach, 
Away  in  faerie  haunts. 

My  heart  is  on  the  hill-side 
Where  the  wild  thorn-apples  grow, 
And  overhead  the  skies  are  wide, 
And  stars  are  warm  and  low : 

And  when  their  tongues  in  sleep  are  still,- 
As  soft  as  mouse  on  stair, — 
Til  out  and  dance  upon  the  hill 
With  fireflies  in  my  hair! 


142 


THE  MOON 

THE  moon's  no  bigger  than  my  ball, — 
I'm  not  afraid  of  her  at  all! 

But  yesterday  she  rose  so  soon, — 

'Twas  quite  too  early  for  the  moon! — 

And  looked  at  me  without  a  sound, 

So  white,  so  bright,  so  great,  so  round, 

Above  the  top  of  Butter  Hill, 

That  I  was  almost  scared  until 

She  slipped  behind  the  cherry  tree; 

Out  through  its  leaves  she  peeped  at  me, 

Then  climbed  up  to  its  topmost  boughs 

And  crept  along  the  neighbour's  house, 

Till  from  the  chimney  by  and  by 

She  stepped  right  off  into  the  sky; 

And  all  the  time,  what  do  you  think? 

I   saw  her   shrink  and  shrink  and  shrink! 

Now  she's  no  bigger  than  my  ball, — 
I'm  not  afraid  of  her  at  all! 


143 


FOR   SOME  I  LOVE 


TRUANT 

Do  you  not  fear,  in  those  long  years  to  come, 
A  day  on  which  our  voices,  weary-dumb, 
Shall  fail  of  psalms  and  we  shall  turn,  replete 
Of  giving  praises  though  to  praise  be  sweet? 
When,  surfeiting  of  splendors,  we  shall  be 
Burdened  by  jasper  and  chalcedony? 
Then,  harps  discarded,  haloes  laid  away, 
Shall  we  not  steal  a  heavenly  holiday? 

We  two  shall  creep  down  the  long  shining  stairs 
Softly  as  thieves, — old  Peter  unawares 
Drowsily  nodding  his  bald  saintly  pate, — 
So  tiptoe  through  a  little  crack  i'  the  gate 
And  out!  Then  unreproved,  unhindered,  free 
For  one  day  of  seraphic  truancy! 

Tell  me,  O  Playmate,  whither  do  we  go? 
Back  to  dear  earthly  haunts  we  used  to  know? 
Or,  bolder,  flash  through  space,  until  afar 
We  touch  the  threshold  of  some  secret  star? 

147 


148  TRUANT 

What  wild  pranks  shall  we  play,  what  mad  deeds 

do, 
What   mischief   make   amid   strange   moons,   we 

two? 

Ere,  meekly  tapping  on  the  sapphire  door, 
We  creep  back  to  God's  great  gold  house  once 

more? 


TO  ONE  AWAY 
For  M.  D.  M. 

IF  I  could  touch  you  now 

I  would  kiss  your  hair's  dim  bands 

And  the  fine  faint  lines  of  your  brow 

And  the  faint  fine  veins  of  your  hands, 

Your  fingers  worn  and  brown; 

The  soft  folds  of  your  gown, 

I  would  touch  them  unawares; 

And  oh,  it  would  be  sweet 

To  hear  upon  the  stairs 

The  fall  of  your  patient  feet. 


149 


THE  WIND 

THE  wind  creeps  down  the  corridor, 
The  blind  wind  taps  upon  my  door, 
Pauses  and  sighs,  then  taps  once  more 

He  lifts  the  latch  and  lets  it  fall, 
Then  back  again  his  slow  feet  crawl 
By  each  blank  door  along  the  hall: 

And  at  each  door  he   fumbles  past 
He  tries  the  latch  but  finds  it  fast, — 
He  tries  the  little  north  door  last. 

But  in  that   room  where   lately  were 
Laughter  and  lilt  he  hears  no  stir; 
He  sighs;  I  can't  awaken  her! 

Then  down  the  passageway  once  more 
He  creeps  across  the  creaking  floor, 
Pausing  to  listen  at  my  door. 


150 


VERSES  FOR  A  GUEST  ROOM 
L.  S.  H. 

I  HAVE  no  pomp  to  offer  thee, 
Just  my  heart's  hospitality, — 
A  little  beam,  but  one  to  light 
The  lodging  of  an  anchorite. 


A  slumber  deep,  a  dreamless  rest 
To  thee  within  this  room,  Dear  Guest! 
'Tis  sweet  to  me  that  thou  and  I 
This  night  beneath  one  roof  shall  lie; 
For  this  I  deem, — most  dear,  my  Guest  !- 
In  all  the  world,  or  East  or  West 
Where  e'er  thy  tarrying  may  be, 
Blessed  is  the  roof  that  shelters  thee. 


151 


TO  ANNE 

GRIEF  cannot  ever  wither  you, 
Nor  ill   fate  bitterly  subdue, 
Nor,  hungry  heart,  will  you  be  left 
Ever  quite  utterly  bereft; 

For  while  dews  fall  and  waters  flow, 
While  rainbows  arch  and  west  .winds  blow 
You  cannot  be  quite  discontent, 
For  beauty  is  your  nourishment. 


152 


TO 


THEY  could  not  shut  you  out  of  heaven 
Although  the  sins  you'd  sinned  were  seven 

Not  all  the  saints  and  souls  in  glory 
Could  exile  you  to  Purgatory: 

For  this  is  true; — they  need  your  eyes 
To  light  the  ways  of  Paradise. 


153 


, 

TO  E.  A.   L. 
I 

GOD  dreamt  a  dream  of  stars  and  dew, 
Lest  He  forget  He  fashioned  you. 

He  shaped  your  spirit  out  of  these : — 

The  dusk  o'  the  dawn  and  the  wind  in  the  trees; 

Then  with  a  smile  He  bade  you  be 
And  made  life  lyrical  for  me. 

II 

There  is  no  fear  may  make  thy  heart  afraid, 
Nor  doubt  by  which  thy  soul  could  be  betrayed, 
Nor  Death  himself  shall  render  thee  dismayed; 

For  though  his  step  be  sudden  thou  shalt  rise 
And  give  him  greeting  in  right  queenly  wise 
With  gracious  lips  and  sweet  unshadowed  eyes; 

And  he  that  is  the  Arbiter  of  All, 
Ere  giving  thee  to  drink  of  wine  and  gall, 
Shall  place  upon  thy  brow  a  coronal. 

154 


APOTHEOSIS 

ALL  spring  I  watched  her  while  a  change 
Crept  over  her,  her  hands  would  cling 
Sharply  to  mine,  her  eyes  grew  strange, 
Wide  with  a  wordless  questioning; 

While  on  her  wistful  face  I  read 
A  listening  look  as  if  she  heard 
From  blossomed  branches  overhead 
The  fluting  of  a  phantom  bird. 

Yet  breathed  she  never  word  to  tell 

What  wonder  she  was  thinking  of, 

Till  spring's  dream  changed  to  summer's  spell, 

Then  spoke  at  last  and  said:  I  love. 


155 


AN  OLD  PHOTOGRAPH 

INTO  your  grave  grey- shadowed  eyes, 
So  wide  and  innocently  wise, 
I  look  and  ask  if  any  knew 
The  wild  shy  gentle  heart  of  you; 
For  these  same  solemn  eyes  confess 
The  child's  eternal  loneliness, 
The   child's  pathetic  wistful   pride, 
The  child  whose  childhood  is  denied. 

Could  I  but  take  your  hand  and  touch 

Your  cheek  to  mine  and  tell  you  such 

Brave  tales  as  boys  love  to  have  told, — 

Of   Robin   Hood   and  pirate  gold, 

Of  Lancelot  and  Galahad; 

And  when  the  dark  came,  tuck  you  tight 

Beneath  the  covers  smoothed  and  white, 

And  sing  to  you  how  angels  keep 

Their  slumber  watch,   till  you  should  sleep, 

And  sleeping,  smile,  O  little  lad! 

But  three  score  years  and  more  have  sped, 
O  grave  grey  eyes !  And  you  are  dead. 

156 


TO  A.  D.  M. 

WHAT  shall  I  take  to  make  your  requiem? 
Not  the  deep  tones  nor  solemn  hues  of  grief, 
Nor  the  sad  pageant  man  shapes  out  of  them, 
Rather  God's  beauty  gathered  leaf  by  leaf; 
Shadows  of  far  clouds  resting  on  the  hills, 
Green  dawning  hope  in  April  frond  and  shoot, 
Fragrance  of  spring  woods  that  the  rain  distils, 
Orchards  at  sundown  full  of  scarlet  fruit; — 
Mist  over  moist  fields  brown  beneath  the  plough, 
Great  oaks  in  autumn  bronze  against  the  blue, 
Hips  of  wild  rose  aflame  on  winter's  bough, — 
These  will  I  take  for  these  belong  to  you. 


157 


THE  GARDENER 

SOME  think 

The  souls  of  those  who  die 

Linger  a  while  among  those  haunts  most  dear 

To  them  in  living; — a  last  link 

That  they  are  sfow 

To  break   .    .    . 

I  know 

Your  spirit  has  been  here 

Among  those  roses, 

Tending  them  with  understanding  touch 

And  gentle  wise  caress; 

Else  why 

Should  they  have  bloomed  this  year 

In  such 

Heart-rending  loveliness  ? 


158 


IN  MEMORIAM 

LIKE  flying  wings,  like  soundless  waters  flowing 
Fade  the  dear  dead  from  out  the  memory; 
This  is  the  changeless  truth,  Beloved  One,  and 

knowing 
I  would  pray  fate  these  frail  words  prove  for 

thee, — 

Struck  at  white  heat  of  passionate  regretting, — 
Tablets  of  bronze,   fadeless,   beyond  forgetting. 


159 


HISTORICAL  NOTES 

THE  REGICIDE — Upon  the  accession  of 
Charles  II  in  1660,  Col.  Goffe  and  Gen.  Whalley, 
members  of  Cromwell's  High  Court  of  Justice, 
fled  to  America  where  they  spent  the  rest  of 
their  lives  in  hiding.  It  is  known  that  both  passed 
a  number  of  years  at  Old  Hadley  concealed  in 
the  house  of  the  minister  and  tradition  has  it 
that  Whalley  died  here  and  was  buried  in  the 
cellar.  The  date  and  place  of  the  death  of  Goffe 
who  survived  him  are  unknown. 

STEPHEN  BURROUGHS  DEFENDS 
HIMSELF — Perhaps  the  most  picturesque  inci 
dent  in  the  career  of  the  notorious  Stephen  Bur 
roughs  was  his  Acceptance  under  an  assumed 
name,  on  the  strength  of  a  glib  tongue  and  a 
dozen  of  his  father's  old  sermons,  of  the  position 
of  temporary  minister  or  "Supplyer"  to  the  dour 
Scotch-Presbyterian  congregation  of  Pelham, 
Massachusetts.  Becoming  suspicious,  the  elders 
of  the  church  demanded  that  he  preach  a  sermon 

160 


HISTORICAL  NOTES  161 

extempore  from  a  text  of  their  own  choosing, 
an  ordeal  which  his  quick  wit  enabled  him  to 
turn  to  his  credit  and  their  confusion. 

DAN  KELLOG  ENTERTAINS  SHAY'S 
ARMY — The  old  house  with  its  secret  staircase 
where  Kellog  hid  to  escape  the  attention  of  zealous 
patriots  still  stands  between  Amherst  and  Pelham. 
Here  in  1787  after  Shay's  arm  j  of  two  thousand 
malcontents  from  Western  Massachusetts  had 
suffered  their  first  discomfiture  at  the  hands  of 
the  militia  a  number  of  that  bold  band  stopped 
for  refreshment,  leaving  their  names  scrawled 
on  the  attic  walls  as  testimony. 


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